


undo

by fisherqueens



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, M/M, This really got away from me, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8963746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fisherqueens/pseuds/fisherqueens
Summary: a study in shedding one's skin OR viktor spends a lot of time staring at the back of yuuri's head. (spoilers for episode 12)





	

**Author's Note:**

> like it says in the tags, this one really got away from me, but i had a lot of fun with it in the end! unbeta'd because i'm a filthy little scrub（ΟΔΟ；；）the title isn't my favorite, but it does the trick.
> 
> find me on tumblr at [fisherqueens](http://fisherqueens.tumblr.com).

The back of Yuuri’s neck is _pretty_.  
  
-  
  
It starts in Hasetsu, you see. There is something particularly magical about the steam there.  
  
And the beer. And the snow. And the quaint ice rink where Yuuri had grown up skating. The beach, the shoreline, the Ninja Castle, the _people and children._  
  
He tells this to Yuuri one night as they loosen their muscles in the hot spring after a particularly grueling training session.  
  
“I would say so,” Yuuri tells him, arms draped comfortably over the stone, facing away from him so that his shoulders and back are on display, chin resting on his hands as he looks out at nothing in particular. It’s the first time he’s looked comfortable in front of him in weeks, stretched out like a pleased cat. Yuri has long since left and while preparing his Free Skate has taken up a significant portion of his time and energy, moments like these seem to be happening a little more often to Viktor’s delight.  
  
It could be the exhaustion, too. It leaves you bare. Viktor knows he works him to the bone. He can see the bruises from his falls on the ice beginning to turn from purple and blue to an uncomfortable yellow and green.  
  
“Home is always magical,” Yuuri then says, turning his head to the side slowly, resting his cheek on his knuckles.  
  
Viktor is glad for the steam, because he is very sure he’s flushing neon bright, and not just from the heat or alcohol.  
  
“Come here, Yuuri,” he says, moving through the water and grabbing his wrists without a single beat to clue him in. “Let’s stretch you out.”  
  
“Viktor—”  
  
“Come on, come on, while it’s easiest!” he laughs so that the blush doesn’t overtake his face completely. Yuuri is far redder than _he_ is, around the ears, around the nose. At least Viktor can blame it on the beer. Yes. The magical beer.  
  
“ _Viktor_ —”  
  
-  
  
China’s sky is clear and dark through the large windows in their hotel room, the skyline lit up in a myriad of colors. Viktor would like to take Yuuri out for dinner. He’s earned it, but he’ll wait to propose the idea until after Yuuri has had some time to wind down from the competition tonight.  
  
Yuuri sits on the edge of the bed with a grunt, still dressed in his short program outfit, head bowed just a bit and pulling a little bit of his hair from the collar. His hair is still streaked back, the bold lines of mascara on his eyes blurring just a bit. He looks wild and refined all the same, like he’s just come home from a love affair and that if he peeled his clothing back, he would see the blooming red bruises of an over-eager lover’s mouth.  
  
How scandalous, Viktor thinks to himself, knuckle pressed to his lips.  
  
The tips of Yuuri’s fingers are stark against the material. He’s fumbling a bit with one hand, now two, looking for something, pushing up for the seam hidden on his back and Viktor can’t help but look on. He—  
  
“ _Viktor_ ,” Yuuri says suddenly, turning to look at him.  
  
Viktor is still holding his coat and Yuuri’s, standing in the open doorway. “Hm?” he says, still half-entranced as Yuuri’s fingers continue to try and casually find the zipper’s pull. His arms are contorted somewhat awkwardly at the elbow and he looks like he might be straining.  
  
“Could you… close the door. Shut it?” Yuuri swallows a moment, like he’s thinking. The fabric of the costume moves with the minute motion of his throat and Viktor can’t stop _fixating_ on it. _Swallow_ _again_ , he thinks and the thought is meant to be more innocent than when he says it again to himself. _Swallow_ _again, please._  
  
The word that tumbles past Yuuri’s lips next is familiar, strange, and _delightful_. “ _Pozhaluysta_?” he adds, as if the Russian will make him close it all the more quickly.  
  
It doesn’t.  
  
Yuuri’s been studying. It’s flattering. They’re both decent conversationalists in English, but to hear Yuuri stutter out a lisp of Russian is enough for Viktor.  
  
He closes the door far slower than he means to, eyes still looking at Yuuri, who is looking back at him as if he might have two or three heads or four arms. Eight legs. Someone chatters behind their excitedly, pausing just as Viktor locks it, then moving on.  
  
_This is private_ , he decides, watching Yuuri smile. He then turns back to his work now with _both_ hands. They shake, and Viktor can imagine why: sore from the adrenaline making its way to his extremities now, trembling from the perfection of the performance, a high that should be ridden out flat on the back or drinking from the neck of a bottle. 

Yuuri’s voice breaks his train of thought a second time.  
  
“Viktor… a little help…?” Yuuri doesn’t finish, instead, color high on his cheeks saying the rest. _Help_. “With my zipper,” he says this time, a withering smile on his features. Embarrassed. “Sorry. Would you mind? I just...”  
  
“Of course, don’t apologize!” he says, moving to lay his coat over a chair and walking forward. Yuuri shifts on the edge of the bed, hands disappearing to rest demurely in his lap. It’s startling to see him this way again after such an evocative performance. He’s fidgeting with his fingers, smoothing them over his knuckles, hunching his shoulders. The Eros leaves him and Viktor can feel it in how tense his shoulders are. “I always had trouble with this one, never quite wanted to come off.”  
  
He smoothes a finger along the invisible seam hiding the zipper. Tt starts at the small of his back and works its way up, flattened down beautifully to make it look as if Yuuri had been melted into the very suit, as if it were apart of him and not some costume. He works his finger up slower than he needs to. Really, he could make quick work of the whole thing, but feeling Yuuri’s back straighten gradually as he works a finger up to the zipper hiding at his nape  
  
well,  
  
there’s something all too satisfying about that.  
  
_Where did it all go?_ Viktor thinks as he takes hold of the tab and pulls along the small teeth of the zipper. He hears Yuuri sigh out, relief.   
  
The first thing Viktor is privy to is the smooth column of his neck, the little bump where his spine meets his neck to meet his skull underneath his skin. The costume clings with sweat, with chill, and Viktor smoothes one glove-warmed hand up over the bared skin briefly. To warm it. That’s all.  
  
Yuuri makes a noise, somewhere between a too-sharp inhale and a stifled squeal.  
  
He _squeezes_.  
  
The noise dissipates into another sigh.  
  
He squeezes _again_.  
  
Yuuri’s shoulders rise up stiffly, as if perhaps he’s been worked over too much. The opposite of what Viktor had wanted to happen.  
  
“Thank you,” Yuuri says, reaching back for the zipper with his other hand. Viktor’s palm still rests on the nape of his neck. He hasn’t stopped touching it. It’s hard not to.  
  
He strokes with a finger down the dip of his skull.  
  
Yuuri laughs nervously, pitched high.  
  
He strokes again and Yuuri pulls _harder_ than he needs to in order to peel the rest of Eros’ costume off of him. The fabric parts, inky black to milky white. The compression of the mesh portion of the costume leaves little pink diamonds when it pulls back, like the scaling on a beast, a dragon, a shimmering fish, a creature that he can’t touch except for in its most vulnerable state. Yuuri is unraveling from Eros quickly, flushing skin and embarrassment and it fades.  
  
Viktor is still holding his hand there at the base of his skull. _Don’t go just yet_.  
  
Yuuri is suddenly breathing rather loudly. One, two, three breaths that devolve into laughter (nervous or genuine? Viktor can never tell with Yuuri.)  
  
“I’m going to shower,” he announces and pulls back too quickly for Viktor to maybe apologise (but in Viktor’s mind, he’s not sure what to apologize for. _Sorry for wanting to peel you out of the rest of your costume. Sorry for wanting to hold your neck a little more. Sorry for wanting to put on some music and cool you down from the performance that’s worked you up so much._ )  
  
Viktor sits there on the bed and listens to the door shut and the shower turn on.  
  
-  
  
The Rostelecom Cup is host to one of Yuuri’s most gripping performances of Eros, he’s fairly sure.  
  
Whether it’s the method acting (was it really acting?),  
  
or the emboldened kiss that Yuuri blows to the judges,  
  
or the perfect performance on the ice  
  
none of it matters.  
  
Viktor is peeling Yuuri from his costume again. This time, he isn’t asked to. Yuuri seems content to fumble along for the zipper again.  
  
He doesn’t allow Yuuri to do this for long, murmuring gently, “Allow me,” before finding just where the zipper is nestled and pulling it brazenly all the way down to where the end of its trail nestles at the small of Yuuri’s back. A long stripe of pale skin, sweat, pink, blushing. Yuuri is standing there with his hands clutched tightly together as if it brings him some sort of comfort.  
  
Viktor settles a hand in the center of his naked back where a fever is growing beneath his skin, the kind that Viktor wants to swallow whole.  
  
Eros’ shoulders peel slowly off of Yuuri’s. More skin. He blushes, Viktor notices, from the tips of his ears all the way down his throat. He’s a soft creature underneath the glimmering and seductive shell of Eros.  
  
“That was beautiful,” he remarks. “Your performance tonight… _outstanding_.” He has some criticisms, somewhere, but tonight isn’t the night for them.  
  
Yuuri’s body presses back against his hand unexpectedly, but he’s still tense.  
  
“I’m glad. That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”  
  
Eros peels back further, down his biceps, lean, but lined with beautiful muscle, away from his sides, nipped inwards from a strict training regimen and mindful habits. Yuuri doesn’t try to press it back into place, but rather, lets it all fall off, and Viktor watches, fascinated as Yuuri’s hands eventually come up to slowly pull the arms off of his body, careful with the delicate fabric. There is no other costume fit for Eros, this one will have to remain intact for Barcelona (and Viktor is _certain_ they will make it there).  
  
He leans down to press a kiss to the nape of Yuuri’s neck, one hand cupping his shoulder. Yuuri shivers and makes a noise.  
  
He bites down softly. Yuuri gets a bit louder.  
  
“I meant it,” he praises. “What a _striking_ performance,” he whispers close so that Yuuri should be able to feel Viktor’s breath on his skin, stirring the loose hair. “And you were so inclined to _doubt_ in your abilities to embody—”  
  
Yuuri turns on his heel suddenly and Viktor is met with his eyes, bright and wet and his fingers clutching the very front of his jacket, one hand wrapped again around his tie, the other caught up and mussing the lapel. Viktor stares down at him, aghast, but less in horror, more in delight as Yuuri leans up on bare feet, balancing on tiptoe. He smells like sweat and exertion and like ice. His upper lip had gathered sweat and tastes like salt, a little sour (nerves from before he’d hit the ice, perhaps…)  
  
But despite this, they kiss and it tastes precisely how Viktor was hoping it might. Yuuri’s naked arm loops over his shoulder and he stands there for what feels like eternity. Is it Eros? Is it Yuuri? It’s both, Viktor realizes as Yuuri makes a soft noise in his mouth and bites down rudely on his lower lip. He tries not to stumble, he’s very sure he’ll step on Yuuri’s toes if he does.  
  
“ _Yuuri_ ,” he says just barely a breath over his lips when they pull back.  
  
It happens so quickly that Viktor can’t trace the moment when Yuuri lets go of him until the bathroom door shuts again and the shower starts up.  
  
-  
  
He does not peel Yuuri out of his Short Program costume at the Grand Prix Final (he was hoping he might.)  
  
They sit and they talk and Viktor watches the look on Yuuri’s face flash in all kinds of ways, his knuckles going bone white, his shoulders trembling.  
  
Disappointment. Sadness. Finality. Gratitude.  
  
But Viktor does not feel thanked at all. Yuuri’s fingers on his cheek, lifting up his hair from his face, it feels worse than a slap, bright red and burning.  
  
They sleep and it is an uneasy sleep, back to back.  
  
-  
  
They stand facing one another, Yuuri on the ice, the barrier cutting them in two.  
  
His tears are hot in his collar.  
  
He leaves a wet stain on the dark fabric of Yuuri’s jacket.  
  
-  
  
Viktor feels like the only person in the stadium when the music dissipates into the air and Yuuri looks at him, gasping with fingers outstretched.  
  
He’s beautiful.  
  
Even the parts of him that had made him cry.  
  
-  
  
“Yuuri,” he croons to him as they pile together into the spacious tub in their hotel in Barcelona (for this, Viktor pays well. Yuuri deserves it after all of this, every single moment of _this_ ). “ _Yuuri_ ,” he says again, smoothing shampoo into his hair and pulling his bangs back before the thick, rich soap can get into his eyes.  
  
“Mmm?” Yuuri replies, almost sleepy. His arms are wrapped around his knees, Viktor’s long legs bracketing him on both sides. He rakes fingers through his scalp from behind and Yuuri prickles and shivers with a pleased sound. Viktor says his name again, just to relish in the sound of it, drawing water up over the curve of his neck and kissing where his skin smells sweet now.  
  
“Nothing important,” he whispers.  
  
He holds a bit, one hand still caught up in a fistful of soapy hair on Yuuri’s head.  
  
“Lean back for me,” he says, and Yuuri replies in a smooth, lazy motion, both hands gripping the sides of the free-standing bath and tipping back gracefully. He rinses his hair in a few easy passes of his hand through his hair, thick and soft and silken sliding through his fingers.  
  
Yuuri pulls some of the hair away from his neck. It’s gotten a little longer, not long enough to be noticeable for most, but Viktor sees it and his jaw slackens.  
  
He nods silently and reaches out both hands to steady him upright, smoothing his thumbs over where shoulder and neck meet, squeezing tenderly. Yuuri hums as he is guided back to lean against his chest, unfolding his legs. They peek up from the bath, bruised knees from practice, ankles a little raw, a few new blisters, but every single one is beautiful.  
  
“I’m proud of you,” he says to him in the bath as their skin prunes uncomfortably and the water chills.  
  
“I’m proud of you,” he purrs as he helps Yuuri dry off with one of the hotel’s fluffy white towels from head to toe.  
  
“I’m _proud_ of you,” he says when they’ve piled into one of the beds and are a mess of limbs, stroking and petting. He’s running fingers along Yuuri’s knee, admiring how bright his eyes are, even through the fatigue, the aftermath of the adrenaline rush.  
  
-  
  
In the middle of the night, Yuuri is holding his face, thumbs pressing into his cheekbones softly.  
  
Viktor whispers his name, barely audible. He’s certain he’s still dreaming.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, and in the dark, Yuuri’s voice is wavering, but honest. “I’m sorry I made you cry,” he says. “I’m sorry I was selfish.”  
  
Their noses brush together softly.  
  
Viktor lazily slides fingers around the back of Yuuri’s neck as they lay in the dark. Someone’s limb starts here, another’s ends there.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says again, kissing Viktor softly on one cheek and then the other. “I won’t make you cry again. I won’t.”  
  
-  
  
The back of Yuuri’s neck is _beautiful_.  
  
And this not the first time that Viktor has noticed this, nor is it the first time that he has been given the proper moment to appreciate it.  
  
Yuuri is sleeping in late for Sunday, but Viktor allows it. Travel always makes him tired and he looks too sweet to stir up (too much). He is smiling softly, maybe dreaming, bared shoulders to the light, face tucked half into the pillow, serene as can be. Beside him, Makkachin dozes in much the same way. After an early morning walk, the dog wasted no time getting back into bed with him, rolling over, tail wagging a lazy arc back and forth.  
  
Viktor leans down over the mattress and pushes back some of the wayward hair at Yuuri’s nape, kissing him softly there.  
  
“Sweetheart,” he whispers softly, his voice singing into his ear. “Would you like breakfast yet? I can show you a little café not far from here that makes some of the best syrniki you’ll ever taste.” To emphasize, he kisses him again, a line of them that requires him to get on one knee on the bed and pull the sheet down. From between his shoulders to between his ribs, to lying down to kiss the small of his back where the waistline of his sweats dips low to his hips. Yuuri hums slowly and his entire body trembles as he stretches. His arms reach upwards, his toes point beautifully. Viktor watches in awe as Yuuri wakes up to him, _still_ smiling.  
  
“Then I’ll take you to the studio for warm ups,” he adds, punctuated with a kiss to his mouth.  
  
“Or,” Yuuri says at last, rolling over onto his back. Viktor moves quickly out of the way, looking down at him, hair mussed and face sleep flushed, but rested. “We could warm up here.”  
  
“Niet,” Viktor says decisively, though his body speaks differently as he covers Yuuri’s with his own. “We will stay in _all day_ if we do and we just don’t have the time for it.” He reaches out a hand, cupping Yuuri’s cheek in his palm, smiling down as if he’d really turn him down. “You’ve already slept away half the morning, Sleeping Beauty, and I won’t join you.”  
  
“I honestly _meant_ warming up. _Real_ warming up,” Yuuri laughs, bending a knee to press against Viktor’s chest lightly. “Not…”  
  
“Are you certain? Or would you really _prefer_ if we warmed up _the other way?_ ” Viktor purrs, leaning in closer. Yuuri’s knee bends back more pliantly. He hums. Viktor decorates his pulse with kisses in slow and methodical fashion. “Best think of an answer quickly before you’re left with a few questionable bruises that will be a little more than _difficult_ to explain.”  
  
He nips for emphasis  
  
and rolls Yuuri over onto his stomach, leaning down to brush a kiss onto the top of his neck again. His body is still loose with sleep, caught off guard, and his legs tangle in the sheets. Viktor bites where he’s sure Yuuri’s sweatshirt will rub uncomfortably against it. It’s the only mark he leaves, like a compromise, until Yuuri is chanting “syrniki” through choked off laughter. “Please— _please please_ , Viktor—are you _listening_ to me! I’m saying yes!”  
  
He leaves a little mark in the center of Yuuri’s neck, just where his hairline begins to fade upwards.  
  
The little, knowing curve of Yuuri’s smile is beautiful too as he lets him up to dress for the day, as he pulls the collar up on the back of his sweatshirt nervously, as he stops caring once they’re past the warm ups and are onto the ice, Yuuri skating figures with long strokes as Viktor talks him through their new regimen, following alongside him.  
  
He grips him gently by the back of his neck to pull him to a stop, smiling.  
  
“Are you ready?” he asks.  
  
Yuuri smiles brightly at him. “Always,” he says and pulls away to await the first order of business on the ice today.


End file.
